


the sea captain and the bard -a poetry collection

by fruity_little_bard



Category: pirates - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-08
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:46:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 5,198
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26917585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fruity_little_bard/pseuds/fruity_little_bard
Summary: Somewhere along the way, the otherwise nameless caricatures of the sea captain and the bard stopped being just a metaphor for my unrequited love, and developed into their own characters. Thus, it felt only right to give them their own story.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. call me maybe

the ocean calls to me

in a voice that sounds like yours

playful waves soaking the cuffs of

my tattered jeans

cold sea breezes kiss the

skin of my knee

through the patch you sewed

over the jagged hole

but even those stitches are

unraveling now

and i think i see you

out past the breakers

waving at me like we’re some

long-lost lovers in black and white

and i’m running after your train

but my well-loved boots

become too big

and the hard concrete rushes to

meet the tender skin of

the palms of my hands

of my exposed knees

impact takes my breath away

like when i saw you the first time

on dry land and sitting next to me

and i wanted to hold your hand

so much it made me ache

i want you

because i am a selfish human

i yearn for you

with the tenderness of a poet

and i will follow where

you lead me

out past the breakers

boot tracks left on the sandy shore

your siren song calls to me

and i answer every time


	2. longing

i breathe life

into the distant ocean

and the green, green trees

these entities take on

shapes that only i can see

like lovers that are always

too far to touch

and how i long for you

standing on a sandy shore

rolled jean cuffs soaked through

with briny water

stuck to my skin with dried salt

and i want you to lick it off

i ache for you

want to feel rough bark

under my hands

the romance of tucking

a single dandelion behind your ear

and biting your bottom lip

in place of a goodbye

i long for you

like a tree sapling climbing

ever closer to the sun

like an old-timey boat

captain missing the swells

and breakers of the ocean

i long for you

and it kind of scares me

how big this want is

as i write you into

the leaves like they were the

first time i put on my glasses

like watching the ocean

recede into the distance

with salty sand under my nails

and in my socks

taking parts of you with me

like the comfort in knowing

i can always go back


	3. oh, my darling

i breathe life

into the distant ocean

and the green, green trees

these entities take on

shapes that only i can see

like lovers that are always

too far to touch

and how i long for you

standing on a sandy shore

rolled jean cuffs soaked through

with briny water

stuck to my skin with dried salt

and i want you to lick it off

i ache for you

want to feel rough bark

under my hands

the romance of tucking

a single dandelion behind your ear

and biting your bottom lip

in place of a goodbye

i long for you

like a tree sapling climbing

ever closer to the sun

like an old-timey boat

captain missing the swells

and breakers of the ocean

i long for you

and it kind of scares me

how big this want is

as i write you into

the leaves like they were the

first time i put on my glasses

like watching the ocean

recede into the distance

with salty sand under my nails

and in my socks

taking parts of you with me

like the comfort in knowing

i can always go back


	4. darling bardling

what kind of love

do i think i deserve?

a thing that yields poems

sweet platitudes and flowery words

but no romance

a loveless and lonely

kind of something?

and sure, love can be elating

wouldn’t be such a popular topic

of poems and songs and ballads

if it weren’t

but an unforgiving love

can be such a hollow feeling

like having my chest opened

and emptied

and sewn up again

and i know what that’s really like, too

but this kind of love is more numbing

than cut nerve endings

and the scars that that leaves

glad to have never been in love

since there are only so many ways

to say that you’ve made me cry

and make it sound appealing

but a bard with a broken heart

is something no one wants to see

a broken heart yields no coin

but my heart is weak

my heart is wanting

and i am helpless

in the face of how i feel

how i ache

how i yearn

for you

singing your praises

like any good bard would do

even though you’ve never liked poetry

and isn’t that just my luck,

my love?


	5. a love like crashing waves

stinging and salty spray

off the bow of a weather beaten ship

let alone the freezing shock

of ocean waves

has not touched my skin

in six long years

and i am ready, my love

thick ropes of scars

begging to be touched by

the cold of the open ocean

i wonder if all that

clear blue water

hiding so much below the tide

has missed me, too

i am a parched man

laying in the middle of the desert

thinking of her lips on mine

my face in her neck

her sharp sharks teeth leaving

pin-pricks in my shoulder blades

and i know i have not loved

a man, nor a woman

like i have loved the sea

knowing that great uncaged

beast runs through my veins

always welcome and wanting

my love, never meant to be tamed

fills a void in me

right below my rib cage

packed with salty kelp and sand

if the infection doesn’t kill me

then the longing surely will

for the sea

she knows what i desire

and it sounds something

like please

something like home

something like you

something like you you you


	6. captain of mine

the captain asks if you

think the moon misses him

as much as he misses the moon

and your stomach lurches

but not because of the crashing waves

must you be in competition with

something as great as la luna?

millions of miles away

when you are right here

the captain’s right hand man

is that really fair?

who would you ask

if not the captain

and the moon refuses to answer

while the sea only cries

out your name

there is something besides

the captain that is

begging you to return home

and you wonder if a

wolf loves the moon the

same way you could

love a man

torn between wanting that

coldness of the open ocean

on your skin

and craving the captain’s

mouth on your own

is that a selfish thing,

you want to ask,

willing and wanting to follow

the captain

your captain

across the oceans and the constellations?

so be it, then

you tell yourself

because you will remain

after the rum is gone

and the moon has fled

the night sky

you will remain

tethered to the captain

to your captain

and the promise he carries

of the open ocean

with the open sky above


	7. salt

what poet

and furthermore what bard

worth his salt

isn’t at least

a little bit in love

with his muse?

seems a common affliction

for an artist

a love compounded by inks

and thread and a voice thickened

by tears left un-shed

there is nothing to cry about

though, beyond all the silly ways

i’ve found to break my own heart

wishing i could put the blame

on you but knowing this

metaphorical blood is solely

on my own two shaking hands

and maybe that’s my lot

in this life, at least

sleepless nights on my own

yearning to rest my head on

your shoulder and knowing

that you’ll let me every time

and maybe i wrote you

with softer edges

and a smile just for me

and i broke my own

silly little bardling heart

wide open with no help

from anyone at all

because, my love, while

the truth of the matter is

that i love you

have loved you

as a poet and a bard

to his muse

there has always been

so much more than

these words i put down on

paper, knowing you

will never read them

and i will never offer

to speak them aloud

again

for you never were my love

though, it is bold of

me to call you so

and not just from an artistic

standpoint either

but out of a misguided hope

or something just as silly

like a poet and a bard

falling in love with his muse

and mistaking it for

the real thing


	8. empty bottles and tattered sails

there’s a certain poetry to

persistent heartache

don’t you agree, captain?

finding myself more afraid

of the dark than

flames creeping ever closer to

my skin from the torch

i still carry for you

maybe it makes me a fool

but i’d rather be had in

any capacity you can offer

than to abandon ship now

and i know the captain goes

down with the ship

but what is a captain

without his crew,

and what rank would i have

on my own?

still so many question

and no good answers

beyond mumbled apologies

finding myself pulled

between the ocean and the moon

but always ending up

back by your side

and what would

you call that, captain?

loyalty,

foolishness,

love?

maybe love is too tender

leaves no room for

empty bottles of rum and whiskey

lashing rain against blackened sails

there are bite marks in my

knuckles i know you won’t notice

and that’s okay, too

no need to complicate things

maybe we’ll just simplify it

down to saying that what

i crave is adventure

when what i really mean is

you

oh, captain of mine

what i really mean is

you


	9. not your bardling, but my own

bardling, a noun

I. to describe an inexperienced

and thus usually

inferior poet

II. more lover than fighter

preferring a broken heart

over bloody knuckles

but, don’t both burn

just the same?

III. and i can’t carry a tune

hands too unsteady to hold

an instrument with any

kind of confidence

but i could hold you

if only you’d let me

IV. though, what kind of

bard can i really be

if i don’t believe in

the concept of being in love

and the novelty of soulmates

continues to escape me?

V. not your bard

or bardling, rather

though, i could be

if only you’d ask

but it’s selfish of me

to want that, i know

VI. so, my love

and my captain

and my dear, dear friend

i’ll don bright clothes

and remake myself in

to a fool instead

VII. lay down some of this

melancholy at your feet

trying out glass half-empty

in all manners of love

VIII. and maybe i’ll learn how to

carry a tune without

my voice cracking

IX. a way to trick my hands into

no longer shaking

when i hold that instrument close

and coax such pretty sounds from

the strings

X. and, if i’d rather hold you

in place of all those strings

and stained wood

well, no one needs to know


	10. it's hard to be the bard, baby

i will sing of many things

as any good bard must do

bringing so much to life

with only the sound

of my voice

i could sing for you, too

softly, of a man with

daisies braided into

long hair and tucked behind ears

would you take these flowers

that i have picked

even if my hands shake

and their true meaning escapes me?

poor little bard,

i say to myself,

scrubbing tear tracks from pale cheeks

always singing of love

until his voice cracks and breaks

but never truly experiencing it

of course, there’s a certain

poetry in the persistence

of a wound such as this

though, metaphor be damned

it fucking hurts

but there’s no blood to sop up

nothing to bandage or splint

and at the end of the night

i am still left alone

something that feels like

your name on my tongue

and i want to tell you

so many things

like how beautiful you are

like how i’m sorry i let

this infatuation get so far

and grow so large

and i want you to know

that a bard with a broken heart

will yield no coin

but i’ll keep singing for you

anyway

because, my love

the least i can do

is immortalize you

if not in my arms

then through words that will

survive long after i have

returned to the ground

and isn’t that worth something?


	11. the fool and the bard, parts 1&2

  1. .



the fool remakes himself

into a bard

and no one laughs when

he says this out loud

because a crying fool

brings only melancholy and misery

and as for the bard?

well, the bard feels foolish

about so many things

the question still stands

begging for an answer

if loving you

was one of those foolish things

still, the bard would like to think

he understands what falling in love is like

if only from an artistic standpoint

like the poet to the muse

after all, hearts can’t be reasoned with

and this bard has made quite

a career out of being maudlin

welcomes fits of melancholy with open arms

knowing that a good ballad

a misguided declaration of love

is impossible to write without

have a good cry while doing it

2.

and sometimes there is

so much hurt in those tears

that if feels like anger

but the bard does not know

who it is directed at

and does that really matter?

for, while the anger of a poet

runs deeper than blood and bone

the love of a poet is

an infinite thing

maybe not a thing to say aloud

though, what is a bard without

the sweetness of his voice?

fingers tenderly plucking

at his own heartstrings

pulled taut again and again

nothing as poetic as that will

eventually break

even if the bard tries his

damndest to shatter knuckles

against his growing loneliness

because, sometimes, the truth

is saying that you’ve made him

cry and meaning it

when he confesses to missing

being no more than a fool

what does a fool know of love?

of heartbreak

of empty bottles

and emptier promises

the fool knows nothing at all

and the bard would like that back,

so tired of collecting the coins

made from making a broken heart

sound like such a beautiful thing


	12. tether

if there is something

more to love than heartache

well, he has yet to find it

maybe, he thinks

when he looks at you

there could be more

but the breaking of a heart

just seems to sell better

doesn’t it?

if this is a curse

then it’s little more than self-inflicted

and it must be

when there are no flowers winding

vines around ribs, forcing out bloody petals

in place of calling your name

food does not turn to ash in his mouth

and water quenches

while alcohol burns just the same

and he distantly wonders if there

isn’t something burning in him, too

does longing burn?

reaching out for a sea captain

that is tethered to the ocean

just as the bard is tethered

to the metaphor of love

and how the sun looks

when it breaks through

gaps in the leaves

and caresses your sleeping face

like he longs to do

but there is no place here

for touches so vulnerable and kind

the shadows long lashes make

on your stubbled cheeks

is not for him to witness

but, oh, he wishes it was

wants to tuck flowers

free of blood and bone

into your long hair

and maybe even hold your hand

for you see,

the bard is a simple man

easily pleased and open

in the love he gives

practically overflowing

an ocean contained within

the body of a man

and won’t you let him fill

your cup with something other

than rum and the persistent ache

of telling yourself

that you’re better off alone?


	13. all i ask

could you be a lighthouse,

my captain?

a welcome and a warning

all in one

or is that too poetic

of a metaphor for you?

more of a flask

passed back and forth

choosing to mistake the warmth

in my cheeks for

naught but the effects of rum

there is a brightness to you,

though and just the same

my blood sings for you

backed by the sighing

of a heavy heart

but there is beauty in that, too

wouldn’t you agree,

oh, captain of mine?

more than anything, though

captain,

there is beauty in you


	14. the sea captain and the bard

at first there was a sea captain

and he could have been lonely

but, surrounded by the great

expanse of the ocean

is one ever really alone?

and then, there was a bard

arguably more of an orator

(though a bard just the same)

for he carried no instrument,

no weapon but his words

and a pretty little dagger

that the captain gave him

tucked into his boot

it does not matter how long

the bard took to get to the captain

all that matters is he

is there now

so bright with all his love

the bard tucks daisies and

dandelions into the captain’s

long and windswept hair

and if the captain’s teeth are

a little crooked and the

bard has scars on wrist

and arm and chest

well, neither of them minds

because the bard will still

make the captain breakfast

and the captain will still

share his flask of rum

and when the captain asks,

voice rough with late nights

and years of salty ocean brine,

“is this a love story?”

the bard will only laugh,

voice free of heartbreak,

knowing the captain will

always belong more to the

ocean than he ever could

to him, and say,

“nay, my captain. it is naught

but a jaunty little tune”


	15. an argument in support of foolishness in all matters of love

“love makes fools of us all,

my captain,” the bard says,

and there is no bitterness in

his voice, nor any shake

“but,” he continues,

smoothing down the collar

of the captain’s long-coat,

“there are worse things than

being a fool for you”

and the bard remembers something

from long ago

about how touching someone’s collar

will keep them safe at sea

so he does just that

one more time, for good measure

not just because he can

but because the captain will allow it

for there is more between them now

than a ship tossed about by the

waves on the oceans great expanse

but still, nothing more than 

a pretty little dagger

tucked into the bard’s boot

and a daisy behind the captain’s ear

such simple little things

objects exchanged in a way

that is arguably a love language

though, who is to say, really?

what matters here is what

the dagger and the daisy hold

something like the promise of

immortalization through song,

the spoken and written word

and something like a goodbye

that is more a promise of return

and that is arguably a beautiful thing

wouldn’t you say

oh, captain of mine? 


	16. what of it?

the bard wonders if there is

an ending to this story

that could classify it

in the genre of love

wants to ask the captain

but knows deep down that

he needs nothing more than

a ship upon the sea

good rum in a sturdy flask

and a body to hold on

the coldest of nights

and the bard can appreciate

the simplicity of those needs

but, he wants to ask the captain,

what about wants?

because, you see, the bard

he is full of wants

practically overflowing

with all this wanting

arguably more of a yearning

but that’s really just a matter

of semantics he’s choosing to ignore

and this is already a love story,

isn’t it?

even if the two characters don’t

kiss and live happily ever after

besides, the bard thinks,

there is not much material

in the monotony of being

constantly content

because, there are wants

and there are needs

like a poet and a bard needing a muse

and a captain wanting to be held

by something other than the sea

and that’s enough of an ending

at least as far as the bard

is concerned 


	17. is this not a lament, captain?

heartbreak is one hell

of a muse

and the bard wonders

if the captain

if his captain

is aware of this

that the bard could have

a muse before the captain

is nothing to scoff at

because, really, what kind

of poet would he be

if heartbreak weren’t his

first love?

and there really is a certain

poetry in taking the thing that

plagues you into shaking hands

and forcing it into a shape

that suits you better

maybe the shape of that

heartbreak is you, captain

maybe the shape of that

heartbreak

is you


	18. anchored, in one way or another

there is no drowned sailor

here, captain

just a bard steeping his sorrows

in wine

rum,

and beer

and the poetics of heartbreak

can only seem appealing for so long

like a sea captain who does not

know how to be loved

and a foolish bard who does not

know how to stop loving

the bard drinks,

wondering if he is an anchor

and if he is

of what nature

are his hands on the broad

shoulders of the sea captain

a welcomed sort of grounding,

or like being held back?

the ocean always returns 

to the sandy shore

in one way or another

and in this way

the bard is like the sea

a constant current

love as stream of consciousness

and whispered into the

hollow of the captains neck

something like a litany, maybe

always too much something or other

to really be a prayer

besides, the bard is not a devout man

only believes in what he can touch

like a battered flask,

the captains long and wind-swept hair,

or the frayed cuff of a long-coat

draped over the bards shoulders

on the coldest of nights

(and, well, if that long-coat

belongs to the captain

then it’s nobody’s business

but theirs) 

  
  



	19. my lady of the ocean and the waves

perhaps funnily enough

it is not the sea captain

that the bard has built a

home for his heart 

inside of

of course

the captain holds so many

pieces of this heart already

tucked into pockets of

his tattered long-coat

and tangled in his hair

but the bard has so much

more to give

love manifested as a bouquet

of daisies held together by

a simple leather cord

thrust shyly into the waiting

hands of a siren

bobbing up and down in the waves

hair red like the sunset

streaming out behind her

and this siren

her scent like something akin to home

all cinnamon and clove and sea water

cups the bards face in 

her two hands

running gentle and webbed

fingers over week-old stubble

she murmurs,

“hello there, my sweet bard”

and the tug the bard feels

to dive into the swelling

waves of the ocean

has nothing to do with the

sirens beautiful, deadly song

nay, this tug has everything 

to do with the love

and adoration in the sirens eyes

and how that makes 

the bards tender and poetic

heart fill almost to bursting

with how much

he also loves her,

his lady of the ocean

and the waves 


	20. becoming

on a cliff by the sea

there is a cottage

with a lighthouse rising up

behind the slightly slanted roof

though isolated, there is

no loneliness here

only the howling wind

and rolling grassy hills

dotted with daisies,

dandelions, and clovers

a bard resides there

that loved a sea captain

to the point of becoming

a beacon,

always more welcome than warning

and isn’t that a beautiful thing,

loving someone to the point

of creation?

after all, every living thing

needs some kind of constant

like a weather-beaten ship,

coffee always warm on the stove,

or a bard, tirelessly keeping 

a light burning

in order to guide his 

sea captain home 

  
  



	21. return to me, my love, again and again

one night, floating on a sea

of rum and ale

the captain looks up at the bard

from where he’s laying with his head

in the bards’ lap, nimble fingers in his hair

says, “i love you”

words fail the poet now

and nothing escapes but

a sound between a sob

and a laugh

but the captain seems to understand

just the same

and for this the bard is thankful

presses a chaste kiss to the corner

of the captains’ mouth

and the next day

hungover and gripped by

panic over a loss not yet happened

the bard constructs a balcony

around the entire top half

of his two story cabin

watching from warm, salty waters

the siren laughs, insists it’s a widow's walk

and the bard doesn’t give her the satisfaction

of an answer, both knowing she’s right

there is a walk-way around the lighthouse

but it’s not enough

it’s just……

not enough

the siren watches this all

wishes briefly for legs

in order to go to the bard

hold him in her arms

the captain is not there

to see this

how the bard works with

tears in his eyes

a deep cut appearing

on the palm of his hand

and a slash through one eyebrow

the bard cries over the hammer

and nails, the wooden boards

and wrought iron

he cries for the captain

loving him too much

to try and cage a thing so wild

that only the ocean can soothe

he cries for the sadness

in the sirens’ eyes

bright red hair fanning out around

her in the deep green waves

and when the captain

sails back into view

the widow’s walk is complete

and the bard waits

leaning against the railing

he made with his own two hands

bandage on palm and face

and he cries again

but this time out of relief 


	22. lonely

we know

how you sleep

curved spine and

empty arms

your feet and legs

so cold with nobody

there to rub them

up against

you sleep like a person

that has been very lonely

for a very long time

watching you brings tears

to the eyes

for you are not a person

that is used to

nor that likes

to sleep alone

but there are miles between

both of your beds that

neither of you are quite sure

how to fill

because phone calls and texts

do not fill the empty nights

they do not block out

the chill of sleeping alone

when the one that you so

desperately want to curl

your hollow bones

that cracked and twisted skeleton

of yours around

is as lonely and cold

as you are 


	23. artist fingers

i have ugly hands

chewed cuticles, bitten

down nails and blunted fingertips

still, she says that i do not

tells me that my hands are beautiful

the hands of an

artist/writer/painter

the hands of a lover

but until these broken and

scarred hands of mine

have explored every dip

and contour of her body

how can i be sure?


	24. hungering

i yearn to make a house 

inside of you

using stark-white ribs

for an a-frame

your lovely blood

waters the dandelions

and clovers nestled in

wooden window-boxes

i would like to 

nestle myself inside

of your chest cavity, lover

pluck your heartstrings

like they were a harp

and i were something more

than a lovesick bard

loving a man

a wild thing in the shape

of a sea captain that

doesn’t know how to be

loved in that way

and i’ll watch your mouth

chapped lips pulled into

a grin, notice my blood

on your teeth

because, captain of mine

as much as i have been

fed on your affection and the promise

of an always returning

you have been fed on me, too

after all, the lone table

on this ship tossed about

by the mighty ocean waves

has always been set

for two 


	25. interlude

the artist says,

with drink coloring his cheeks

and a sparkle in his eyes,

“follow me”

and the bard knows he

would follow this man

to the ends of the earth

and back if it meant that

he could hold his hand

where the bard allows

himself to be led

there are no ships

no empty docks

no tattered longcoat

and longer, coal-black hair

here, there is only

the artist and the bard

and, oh, how he is held

with one hand cupping

his cheek, another his shoulder

the artist has soft lips

tasting of sweet wines

where the captain always

carries that lingering aftertaste

of bitter sea salt

the candle of this old flame

could consume them both

if the bard were a lesser man

and decided to let it

for, here, in the very back

hallway of some no-name tavern

in some no-name town

there are no sailing ships

and squirrelly pirate captains

no promise of coming back,

because this would be a love

that never leaves

and the bard does wonder

if this is something he is allowed

a love that wouldn’t break his heart

a lover that never leaves one half

of the bed cold as ice

he wonders if the captain

would miss him

if there is any heart left

to break in that lonely breast

the bard wonders if he

would be the one to

break the captain’s heart

and if the monotony of being

constantly content is worth it

and, so, he steps back

out of the embrace of the artist

feels fingertips lingering,

calluses catching in his stubble

and the artist looks at the bard

like he understands what he can’t say

and forgives him for it

and the bard takes that forgiveness

the memory of hands hardened from brushes

and not frayed ropes, or mended sails

and tucks it away like a snapshot

of what maybe could’ve been 

  
  



	26. a conversation

the witch comes to visit

with soup and a story

sets an old pot on

the bard’s little wood-burning stove

and he watches as she works,

perched on a stool

and the witch, she tells

the bard about the stars,

how they always remember

and live for thousands of years

there is one star in particular

she weaves a tapestry about

with her words,

but only where that star cannot hear

taken by pirate ship upon the waves

she speaks, with something like

fondness and resignation

about how this star,

he fell in love with the moon

and when the moon was

too far for him to follow

his love turned towards the ocean

and how it stretches from

one end of the horizon to the other

the bard knows this star well,

of course, often wakes with him

slumbering still, between the

bard and the closed bedroom door

the witch then asks the bard

what he is tied to

and the bard tells her who

he is anchored to

and, setting a bowl of

soup on the well-worn table,

the witch says, with unmistakable 

fondness this time,

“then you are a fool, bard of mine”

the bard nods in agreement,

almost tells the witch he

only eats lunch for her,

but suspects she already knows,

so says instead, 

“aye, and a fool in love

is the very worst kind” 

and the witch will agree,

because the bard is right

but, she will also tell

the bard how this star,

he loves a man

with scars through his eyebrow

and across the palm of his hand

from building a widow’s walk

with the star’s name on his tongue

the whole time

and there is an honesty

in loving someone to the point

of creation again and again,

is there not? 


End file.
